


of birdsong and gold

by crassulaovata (fandomsandcake)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Magic, Slow Burn, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23702281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomsandcake/pseuds/crassulaovata
Summary: “Just to clarify – just to make sure we’re on the same page here,” Jaskier says, agitatedly circling Geralt. “If we get more than fifteen feet apart – less than a tavern’s width when you think about it! – then we die?”Jaskier hopes that at the very least, the song he writes about this situation earns him some coin.(or, the one in which an errant curse leaves Geralt and Jaskier magically bound together)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 257





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Where does this sit in the timeline of The Witcher (Netflix) you ask? Fucked if I know. It's set some time before 1x06 and that's all the information I can give you.
> 
> Do I have any knowledge of The Witcher outside of the Netflix show? Nope. If you're a fan of other Witcher media, you should consider this an AU for the sake of your own sanity. 
> 
> How many chapters will this have? Probably about five or six, but don't hold me to that. It very well could be more.

(i)

Since beginning his acquaintance with Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier has been party to no shortage of horrible, terrible, gruesome, and generally unfortunate things. He wonders whether his creative core has sadistic tendencies, for the way it seems to thrive under misfortune. And so, he tries to focus on the fact that maybe, hopefully, this current situation (while perhaps not  _ terrible _ , most certainly  _ unfortunate _ ) will bring forth his greatest ballad yet. He expresses as much to Geralt. 

Geralt grunts in response. 

It happened like this: 

Geralt was trailing an ill-spirited mage who had been bringing terror to a local village. Jaskier was trailing Geralt, who had been bringing terror to Jaskier with his insistence on galumphing through the dense forest, with apparently  _ no  _ sympathy for the several new tears in Jaskier’s doublet. Geralt found the mage without much trouble, had him a sword-point, and Jaskier was about to comment on how this adventure was hardly exciting enough to grace with a ballad. 

It happened like this: 

Jaskier (staying out of trouble at the edge of the clearing, and definitely not afraid) felt an ice-cold wave of magic rush over his body. In the same instant, Geralt’s sword was plunging into the mage’s body. It was an incredibly simultaneous thing, and it wasn’t until Geralt yanked his blade from the mage’s crumpled form that the magic trickled from Jaskier’s skin. He’d been around enough ill-spirited magic users to know that this could mean nothing good. 

It happened like this: 

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. 

“Geralt –” Jaskier began. 

“I’ve been cursed,” he grit, wiping the mage’s blood from his sword. “Must have rigged the spell for his death.” 

“Yes, Geralt, um –” 

Geralt growled and stormed in the direction of the small cottage they knew belonged to the mage, which sat just beyond the tree line, and which would have been rather charming if not for its association with  _ evil _ , and all that. 

Geralt stalked into the forest before Jaskier could say,  _ yes, I believe I’ve been cursed too.  _

It happened like this:

The pain was agonising. Jaskier’s brain felt fogged with it. He pressed his palm against a tree, tried to steady himself, but couldn’t help crumpling to the ground. He thought perhaps he heard Geralt shout somewhere nearby. He curled in on himself, but it didn’t stop the sharp stabbing sensation that felt like it was prying his skin open from the inside out. 

And then as soon as the pain began, it was gone. Geralt met his eyes from the other side of the clearing, his heavy breaths matching Jaskier’s own. 

“What the fuck just happened,” Jaskier breathed.

Geralt grunted in response. 

  
  


*****

  
  


So, yes. Jaskier hopes that at the very least, the song he writes about this situation earns him some coin. 

“Just to clarify – just to make sure we’re on the same page here,” Jaskier says, agitatedly circling Geralt where he squats, examining the mage’s body. “If we get more than fifteen feet apart – less than a tavern’s width when you think about it! – then we  _ die _ ?” 

“I never said we die.” 

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise that crippling, incapacitating pain was a sign of good health. You’re right! Nothing about that points towards our death. I’ll stop worrying! Comforting as ever, Geralt.” 

Geralt fixes Jaskier’s sarcasm with a pointed glare. 

“Yes, good, glare at me all you’d like,” Jaskier turns his back and takes a few steps away. Once he reaches about ten feet of breadth he starts to feel a twinge in his stomach. “So how do we fix this?” 

He hears Geralt stand up and take a step, and instantly the twinge subsides. “We’ll find a way,” he says, and behind the deep monotone, Jaskier can hear the clear  _ I don’t know _ . 

  
  


*****

  
  


The air smells like freshly-lit oil lamps and the promise of rain as Geralt and Jaskier trod into a new village, two nights later. Jaskier is hungry, tired, and would give life and limb for a hot bath and a tankard of mead. Roach breys as Geralt hitches her to the post outside the inn, with a whispered promise to return soon.

“I can only offer one room on the first floor and one on the third,” the innkeeper insists for a second time, a tremor of uncertainty lacing the statement when his eyes land on Geralt’s swords. 

Geralt grunts and pulls his bag of coin from the desk, and starts to turn, and Jaskier can feel him getting ready to storm away. He will risk Geralt’s half-hearted wrath before spending another night shivering on a bed-roll in the forest, least of all when they have plentiful coin for several nights in an inn. 

“My gods –” Jaskier mutters, making an aborted grab at Geralt and then turning to the innkeeper. “Apologies, sir, my friend is –” Geralt glares, and Jaskier elects not to add any of the colourful adjectives he has reserved just for situations like this. “And well, anyway, you see it’s quite important – necessary, even! – that our rooms are next to each other. You wouldn’t believe me were I to explain  _ why _ , but keep your ears open for an excellent ballad on the matter! Point being, um, we need adjacent rooms.”

The innkeeper blinks, and frowns at Jaskier. “As I said to your  _ friend _ , I can only offer one room on the first floor and one on the third. Separate, you can have both. Together, one. That’s it.” 

“Oh, for –” Jaskier hesitates for a second, glancing between Geralt’s stiff form and the increasingly agitated innkeeper. He remembers the bruises on his side from several nights sleeping on the forest floor, and the sniffle in his nose that seems to get slightly worse every time he wakes up shivering, and the dark storm clouds that had blotted out the sunset. It’s enough to stop his hesitation. “Give us one room. That will be fine,” he says. 

“Jaskier –” Geralt murmurs. 

Jaskier pays with a handful of his own coins, and vows to make Geralt pay for his dinner as restitution. “I’m _ not _ sleeping outside again.” 

He’s known Geralt long enough that he’s able to translate his ensuing  _ hmmph  _ into  _ yes, Jaskier, how correct you are! It’d be a terrible injustice for I, a terrible, mean Witcher, to force a fragile-boned bard to sleep outside in the rain!  _ Or, at least, something to that effect. Jaskier can definitely sense the sentiment somewhere under Geralt’s tight-lipped glare. 

Jaskier trails Geralt as he leads Roach to the inn’s stables, and spends several minutes brushing knots from her mane. He wants to get inside to the promise of a fire, and a meal, and some mead, and if not for the curse he’d be in there now, rather than ankle deep in horse-shit and hay. But instead, he’s got no choice but to linger and watch the gentle glide of Geralt’s fingers through Roach’s mane. It never fails to surprise Jaskier, the tenderness with which Geralt interacts with his horse. It leaves an odd and dangerous feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he tries to focus instead on the cold, on the way the evening air creeps icy and unforgiving through the too-thin layers of his clothes. He shivers, and Geralt notices. 

“Let’s get inside,” he murmurs, running a last hand through Roach’s mane and across her nose. “Good night, Roach.” 

Their room has a bed, a hearth, and a tub. The moment they step inside, Jaskier collapses onto the bed, letting his lute bounce down next to him. 

“I’d forgotten what a bed felt like!” he exclaims, lifting his head to make eye contact with Geralt, who has stopped in the middle of the room. Geralt grunts. 

“I’ll ask the innkeeper to heat the tub while we’re at the tavern,” Jaskier continues, pushing himself up onto an elbow and taking a second to straighten the buttons of his doublet. “You’re paying for dinner, by the way.”

“Like fuck I am,” Geralt says, finally moving to drop his pack in the corner. 

Jaskier stands and waltzes in the direction of the door, stopping when the increasingly familiar itch sets in that lets him know he’s reaching the boundary of the curse. Geralt sighs, and then storms right past him and out the door. Jaskier has to scramble to lock the door and catch up with him. 

“You  _ are _ paying for dinner, by the way. On account of having been excruciatingly unhelpful downstairs. What cretin would rather spend another night in the woods – in the  _ rain _ – rather than share a room, in a comfortable, warm, inn, with their dearest friend.” 

Geralt has long stopped arguing that he and Jaskier are friends, even if he would never directly admit as much. 

On the way out, Jaskier asks the innkeeper to have a tub of hot water waiting for their return, and is quietly pleased when Geralt flicks the innkeeper a coin without Jaskier having to ask. 

The local tavern is, as most small village taverns tend to be, dirty and crowded and warm, and it’s exactly what Jaskier hoped for. Heads turn towards Geralt as they walk in. He hears a man whisper  _ The Butcher _ , and okay. Fantastic. That’s the audience they’re dealing with tonight. Jaskier just hopes they can get through the evening without trouble, because it’s not even like he has the option to  _ flee  _ from a bar fight, not unless he drags Geralt with him. 

They find an empty table in the far corner of the tavern, and as is usual, Jaskier talks while Geralt sits in stony silence, occasionally contributing in the form of a grunt or – if Jaskier says something particularly exasperating – a sigh. 

“We need to head towards the border of Cintra,” Geralt says suddenly, interrupting Jaskier’s very interesting and enthralling story about his university days. 

Jaskier takes a bite of his potato and washes it down with ale. “What? Why? 

Geralt has the audacity to stab his fork into one of Jaskier’s potatoes as he says, “I believe I know of someone who can help us lift this curse.” 

Jaskier doesn’t know why he bothers waiting for Geralt to elaborate, because he never does. “Okay, first of all,  _ oi!  _ that was mine. And secondly, fantastic. Stay all mysterious! Don’t tell me who they are. Not like I’m part of this curse as well.” 

Geralt grunts. “Who they are is unimportant.” 

“Buy me another ale and then perhaps I’ll believe you,” Jaskier says, and continues eating, and telling his story, and Geralt continues brooding, and grunting, and stealing Jaskier’s potatoes. 

  
  


*****

  
  


Jaskier is pleasantly drunk when he sinks into the bath, having declared that  _ for once _ he gets the first wash. Geralt is always more agreeable and pliant after several large mugs of ale, which, Jaskier thinks, is why he concedes so easily. 

“Get out before the water cools,” Geralt demands eventually, but there’s no bite to it. Jaskier can’t be sure how long he’s been in, and thinks he might have started dozing off, the passage of time slightly fuzzy behind the alcohol. 

“Tyrant,” he accuses anyway, just for good measure.

He opens his eyes and is about to draw himself out of the tub, but notices Geralt is facing him, eyes fixed in Jaskier’s direction while he sheds his layers of armour. 

“You can’t turn your back for a second or two?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt just raises an eyebrow and makes no move to give Jaskier any more privacy. 

He doesn’t even care, not really. “Fine,” he says, and tries to pretend the way that he awkwardly slips over the rim of the tub when stepping out was intentional, and like Geralt standing in the middle of the room undressing while Jaskier dries and dresses isn’t making him turn beet-red. At any cost, he can blame the blush on the heat of the bathwater and ale. 

Jaskier flops onto the bed in his underclothes, and keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling until he hears the splash of Geralt entering the tub. The world has stopped spinning, and now just feels fuzzy around the edges. 

He turns his head and watches as Geralt sinks beneath the water, and then rises back up. He wipes the water from his eyes and rests his head against the back of the tub, his hair clinging to his neck and shoulders. Jaskier doesn’t look away when Geralt starts to scrub at his skin, cleaning off the dirt and blood of the past several days. 

The room feels too quiet. All he can hear is the crackle of the hearth, and the soft patter of rain on the roof, and the soft sounds of Geralt bathing, and the intimacy of it makes his skin itch. He opens his mouth to say something, but isn’t sure what, and so rolls over and grabs his lute instead. 

He’s barely plucked the first chord when Geralt sighs and cranes his neck back to look at Jaskier. “Can I not bathe in peace?” 

“You may bathe in peace, but not silence.” He continues to play. 

He’s starting to get lost in the music when Geralt sighs significantly. 

“Use your words, Witcher,” Jaskier says, because he’s too tired and hardly sober enough to decipher Geralt’s various grunts and non-verbal exhalations. 

“When this curse is lifted I’ll never take silence and privacy for granted again.” 

“Sounds like being  _ bored _ and  _ lonely _ , if you ask me.” Jaskier is leant up against the headboard of the bed, and makes a point of not meeting Geralt’s eyes. 

“You can hardly mock my desire for privacy. You asked me to turn my back while you dressed. To what, protect your maiden virtue?” 

Jaskier scoffs, and lets his fingers fall from the neck of his lute. “I am  _ no maiden _ . And my virtue is – well. I am virtuous in entirely non-maiden-like ways!”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. 

“And look, I – I also wanted separate rooms. But, well, of the three options I saw – one being we take separate rooms and fall in a heap the moment we were separated and be  _ painfully  _ reminded why that was a terrible idea, and two being needlessly sleeping in the  _ rain _ – this seemed like the least offensive to all parties involved! Ah, the things I would do with a room of my own!” 

Geralt’s silence is not an encouragement to keep talking, and yet, Jaskier does. 

“With a room of my own there would be no need to protect my virtues! I’d be positively  _ unvirtuous _ . Did you see the way that barmaid was eyeing us – well, probably you, look at your shoulders – but regardless, I would have been very unvirtuous with that barmaid, in a room of my own.”

It is only now occurring to Jaskier that until this curse is broken, sex is going to be very difficult to find. He can’t exactly imagine bringing a lover back to his room and,  _ what _ , forcing Geralt to stand outside in the hallway while Jaskier has sex. The visual is equal parts hilarious and humiliating, and entirely beyond the realm of possibility. 

He begins strumming his lute, this time more jaunty and upbeat. 

“ _ This is a ballad _ ,” he sings. “ _ For all of the sex, I won’t have while I’m linked to Geralt _ .” 

Geralt sighs. 

“ _ Fifteen feet of distance, is hardly enough, so I am left with a case of blue balls.”  _

“Balls and Geralt don’t rhyme,” Geralt adds. 

“Hmm, yes you’re right,” Jaskier thinks for a moment. “ _ Celibate mis’ry, this new lease of life, is entirely the Witcher’s fault. _ ” He lets the last word ring out.

Geralt’s silence is not an encouragement to keep singing, but Jaskier does. 

“ _ Oh sweet Albreeda, daughter of a sailor, I met on a warm summer’s day. We fucked on the beach, your glorious tits, oh Albreeda they blew me away! Oh hey Gunnora, sweet girl I adored you, your husband had other ideas. He chased me away, and still to this day, I think of your tongue in my ear!” _

He continues through a laundry list of several of his best sexual encounters, getting increasingly lude as he goes. Somewhere between  _ Mary _ and _ Celestria  _ Geralt elected to sink down into the tub, presumably submerging his ears. 

“ _ Mighty Sir Terric _ ,” Jaskier starts, and he hears the small splash of Geralt pushing his head back up above the water. Ah yes, the revelation that Jaskier sleeps with both men and women! He hesitates for a moment, but then decides that the ship sailed the moment he included Terric in a song of his sexual exploits. Whether Geralt likes it or not they are magically tied together, and so he has no choice except to accept Jaskier’s sexual proclivities, at least to some degree. 

He falters for a second too long and so begins the verse again. “ _ Mighty Sir Terric, with arms like an elm, imbued with such poise and such class. Sword-work impressive, and assets so massive, I left with a pain in my _ –” Jaskier hesitates, and glances at Geralt. “Uh,  _ heart _ .”

Geralt snorts. 

“The point being,” Jaskier says when he lets the final chord of his lute ring out. “There’s a litany of unfortunate souls who will now miss the chance to sleep with me. So, yes, Geralt, I would also appreciate some privacy.”

His heart is beating slightly too fast. That Geralt hasn’t spat on Jaskier yet is a sharp improvement from the last time Jaskier directly told someone about his sodomitical tendencies. He wonders whether Witchers harbour the same irrational hatreds as humans, or whether perhaps there’s some solidarity to be found in the way that their kind is spat on and jeered at for simply existing. 

Geralt says nothing for several minutes, and Jaskier really can’t take the silence, so resumes picking something melodic and inoffensive. When Geralt stands and steps out of the bath, Jaskier pointedly doesn’t look, and makes sure his eyes stay focused on the strings of his lute. Geralt’s spectacular naked body is nothing that Jaskier hasn’t seen before, but he doesn’t want to seem as if he’s leering. And, well, he has definitely leered at Geralt before, but that’s besides the point. He doesn’t want to push his luck in the  _ Geralt is apparently okay with Jaskier’s loose approach to sexuality _ department. 

Several minutes later, Geralt still hasn’t made any move to get dressed, and has instead elected to stand naked by the fire to dry himself off. Jaskier hates him for it, a little bit, because as much as he’s not attracted to  _ Geralt _ in particular, it takes a superhuman amount of resolve not to stare at Geralt’s fantastic ass. 

“You know,” he says eventually, and Jaskier still doesn’t look up from his lute strings. “You don’t need to fear my response, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier stops playing, and then does look up, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because Geralt continues, and says: “I also sleep with men on occasion.” And Jaskier is left making eye contact with Geralt while he processes  _ that  _ statement. Geralt’s gaze is intense, like usual, golden and direct and boring straight into the heart of Jaskier. 

“Oh,” is all he manages to say. 

Geralt turns his head back towards the fire, and Jaskier can’t look away. His eyes follow as a droplet of water as it trails from Geralt’s hair and runs languidly down his spine, and then forces himself to look away before it reaches his hip bone. 

Jaskier can feel the buzz of the ale wearing thin, and he desperately wishes he were more drunk right now, because he’s quickly coming to the realisation that they never discussed how the sleeping arrangements in their shared room would work. His mind drifts to the possibility of a naked Geralt in bed next to him, and  _ oh no no no  _ that’s a dangerous avenue! A naked Geralt who  _ sleeps with men on occasion _ is a very dangerous prospect indeed, and Jaskier thinks he might need approximately a decade to process that image. 

Eventually, Geralt moves away from the fire and steps into his breachers, remaining shirtless in an absolutely cruel and tyrannical move especially designed to torture poor, overwhelmed, bards. However, he also makes it easy for Jaskier by placing his bedroll on the floor between the bed and the door and laying down before Jaskier can open any sort of awkward dialogue about bed sharing. 

Jaskier’s mouth often moves faster than his head, which is how he finds himself saying, “So, you don’t find me unnatural.” 

Geralt’s brow furrows briefly, like it takes him a second to understand what Jaskier is asking. “I’m a Witcher. I know better than most what it is to be unnatural.”

Jaskier hums. “You know, many men find it repulsive, the notion of two men.  _ What’s the point of sex without the possibility of procreation _ ,” he quotes the argument posed by his cousin when a much-younger Jaskier had nervously recounted his affair with a local stable-hand. 

“I cannot have children with women. By that logic, my laying with a woman is equally as unnatural as my laying with a man.” 

“I’m sure many humans would be put out at the thought of a Witcher laying with women.” In fact, Jaskier knows this to be true, having seen it first hand. 

Geralt grunts in agreement. 

Jaskier lowers his lute onto the ground and blows out the candle by the bed. He watches Geralt for a moment, laying still as stone on his back. 

“Are you sure you don’t want the bed, we can swap –” Jaskier starts 

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. 

Jaskier knows he won’t win this argument, and isn’t even particularly sure if he  _ wants to _ . So instead, he concedes by throwing a blanket down to Geralt, who wordlessly catches it with a grunt that says  _ thank you _ . 

His head feels full as he tries to drift to sleep, and he ends up lying on his side and just watching Geralt for a while. And oh, oh, oh it’s dangerous, the little pull of something in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach, a pull which has nothing to do with the curse and everything to do with the way the waning firelight dances across Geralt’s shirtless torso and bone-white hair. 


	2. Chapter 2

(ii)

When Jaskier wakes, it’s raining outside. It’s with a self-satisfied and contented grunt that he rolls over and goes back to sleep. 

When Jaskier wakes again, it's to Geralt sitting by the hearth sharpening his swords. 

“It’s late in the morning,” Geralt says.

“Oh, sorry, did I get in the way of your very busy day of brooding in different locations,” Jaskier murmurs, sitting up and stretching his sleep-stiff shoulders. “How terrible. Very sorry.” 

Geralt grunts. “We should depart today.” 

Jaskier glances out the window at the rain, which shows no sign of letting up. “Why? What’s the hurry? One more night of mild comfort won’t kill you, Witcher. However, the nasty elements may just well kill _me_ , so I think I know where I stand on the matter.” 

“I’ll take my chances.” 

Jaskier stands, and goes about straightening the bedclothes. “Oh, lovely! Glad to see that your concern for my welfare hasn’t budged.”

Geralt makes a point of running his whetstone along his sword with more vigour than necessary. 

When Jaskier is dressed he ambles over to Geralt and stands in front of him, arms crossed. “Okay Witcher, let’s compromise. We leave at first light tomorrow, and tonight I earn some coin at the tavern, and, _oh no,_ don't give me that face.” 

Jaskier wonders whether by the end of all this he’ll be able to accurately catalogue Geralt’s various glares and grunts into a useful little handbook. He’ll sell it at taverns and courts across the Continent. For the small price of twenty ducats you, too, can decipher the enigmatic ways of the great White Wolf! 

“No.” 

Jaskier bounces on his toes and splays his arms. “You,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Geralt. “Are infuriating today. Someone woke up on the wrong side of -- well, not the bed, because you _said_ I could have it, so don’t you dare complain about that. We are _staying_ tonight, and that’s that!” He tries not to let the authority in his voice waver despite the angry set of Geralt’s jaw. “I have several new songs in want of a tasteful audience, and with all your mysteriousness about your _plan_ who knows when I might next encounter one of those.”

“You’re certainly not going to find a tasteful audience in this village.” 

“Speaking of taste,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s glare tightens. “I saw a bakery closeby, and may wither away if I don’t get bread right this instant!” Jaskier isn’t sure what compels him to ruffle Geralt’s hair of all things, but Geralt’s responding growl is animalistic and deep. “Come along, Geralt” he says, already halfway across the room, giving Geralt little choice but to follow with a heavy sigh. 

*****

Geralt and Jaskier sit on a stone wall in the middle of the village, undercover of a large shop awning. Jaskier picks at the sweetened pastry he’d purchased alongside bread and cheese. The rain has slowed, but still runs in rivlets between the cobblestones. 

“I can’t finish this,” Jaskier says, having apparently misjudged his own appetite. 

“Why did you buy it?” Geralt deadpans. 

“ _Why did you_ \-- blurgh. Fine. I won’t offer you the rest then.” 

In place of a response, Geralt reaches out his hand and plucks the remainder of the pastry from Jaskier’s grip. Wordlessly, and despite Jaskier’s protests, he proceeds to finish it. 

  
  


*****

When the sun has started to set and Geralt has made no move to forcefully remove Jaskier from the tavern, he counts it as a win. He knows full well that Geralt could pick him up and drag him on the road to Cintra if he wanted. Throw him over his shoulder like a peculiarly vocal sack of flour and be done with it. 

The thing is, Geralt might have been right. It would probably be sensible and judicious to get on the road today, rain be damned, and go about breaking this pesky curse sooner rather than later. But, well, Jaskier just doesn’t feel the urgency he thinks he should perhaps feel. He knows it’s probably only a matter of days before he feels differently, and hell, there were moments today when he would have given his lute for a second’s reprieve from Geralt’s moodiness, but as it stands right now, he’s… well, he’s _content_. 

It sounds ridiculous, but the truth is that he _likes_ being around Geralt, something he has made staunchly obvious in his insistence on following the Witcher on hunts, like the one that got them into this situation in the first place. He likes being around Geralt, and there’s an odd, selfish, honest comfort in knowing that Geralt isn’t going to disappear in the middle of the night and leave them to never cross paths again. 

He likes being around Geralt, and he likes riling him up. He knows exactly which buttons to push to annoy Geralt, and it’s _glorious_. Geralt is never more vocal than when insulting Jaskier, and it’s bizarrely exhilarating. 

Jaskier props himself on the corner of the table, having just finished telling the tavern a tale of Geralt’s encounter with a selkiemore. 

“You tell stories like a cheap prostitute fucks. All theatrics and no substance,” Geralt remarks, taking a sip of his ale. 

“Oh Geralt, you flatter me. To suggest I could _ever_ earn as much as a whore,” he pulls the handful of coins earned so far this evening from his pocket and drops them on the table in front of Geralt. He’s quite impressed with himself, and thinks that with a few well-chosen songs he can probably double the amount before the night is out. 

Geralt grunts in response. 

“You know,” Jaskier continues, shoving his coins back into his pocket and sidling around the table. “If you’re so opposed to how I tell our stories --” 

“My stories.”

“Oh sorry, I do remember being there as well while you were getting all stabby with the selkiemore, unless that was another grumpy, white-haired Witcher. But, anyway! That’s beside the point. If you’re so opposed to how I tell them, maybe you should give it a go.” He raises an eyebrow and leans over the corner of the table until he’s in Geralt’s personal space. 

“Fuck off, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier grins and leans back slightly, resting his chin on his palm. “You’re gonna need to come up with a new one, because that’s kinda out of the picture right now, isn’t it? With the whole -- _you know_.” 

Geralt _growls_ , and Jaskier feels buzzed on performance and mischief and on _Geralt_ . It shouldn’t send his head spinning, the way Geralt glares at him, but by gods, _it does_. 

“Hmm, no response? Think on that one for me, yeah? When you’ve got a good alternative to _fuck off_ let me know and I’ll buy you a drink.” He swings his lute around from where it was hanging on his back and strums a cursory chord. “If you need me, I’ll be over there -- less than fifteen feet away, don’t you worry! -- keeping our reputations alive and colourful.” 

It’s a song about fighting monsters, and then a song about Jaskier’s university sweetheart, then a song about a yearning so generic it appeals to anyone with a heart, and then he finishes on a rousing rendition of _Toss A Coin to Your Witcher_ , ending on an obligatory _and to your bard as well_. He’s yet to do the math, but the weight of his pockets screams of a dozen warm meals, and a hopeful few weeks without having to eat rotten potatoes. 

“Why is he sat in the corner like that?” a woman asks Jaskier while he’s leant at the bar, sipping a drink. 

“Hmmm? Geralt? Oh, don’t mind him, he just isn’t much one for, y’know, conversation and revelry and the like.” 

The woman glances across the tavern at Geralt’s motionless form, and then lowers her voice to a whisper. “Is it true what they say about Witchers?”

It’s a question he’s heard a thousand times, and since getting to know Geralt, he’s learnt that most of what _they_ say is the opposite of true. And not untrue in the harmlessly embellished manner of many of Jaskier’s stories, but untrue in the way that makes his stomach twist. Most of what _they_ say are carefully constructed lies aimed to taint the reputation and bring doubt to the humanity of men like Geralt. He thinks Geralt deserves more credit than he receives, for how well he endures the ignorance. 

“What do they say about Witchers?” he responds. 

“That they’re monstrous.”

Jaskier sighs. “You know, I question their credentials, whoever _they_ are that say these things. Geralt is no more monstrous than you or I.” 

She narrows her eyes in suspicion, watching Geralt as he takes a sip of his ale and then resumes glaring into the middle-distance. “And is it true they don’t feel?” 

Jaskier sighs again, and places his mug down on the bar with perhaps more force than necessary, causing the woman to jump. “Hardly. In fact, not at all,” he says.

And the thing is, he has no real evidence to support his response. He’s seen no tangible proof that Geralt can _feel,_ and yet somehow he’s never doubted it for a second. The thought of Geralt opening any statement with the words _I feel_ is almost hysterical, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of emotion, just that it doesn’t come easily, and how much of that is due to being a Witcher, and how much of it is just Geralt, it’s impossible to say. 

After all, what is _tangible proof_ in this case? When Jaskier isn’t singing his emotions, he’s wearing them on his sleeve. And when Geralt thinks no-one is looking, things slip through the cracks that wouldn’t make a lick of sense if he was the emotionless beast _they_ seem to think he is. It’s his anger, his exasperation, his exhaustion. And it’s his tenderness with Roach, and the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mischief in his eyes when he steals Jaskier’s half-eaten pastry. 

“They don’t know what they’re talking about, really,” he adds. 

“You don’t fear him? What he’s capable of?” 

When Jaskier isn’t singing his emotions, he’s wearing them on his sleeve, and he wonders whether it’s visible now, the deepening knot in his stomach, a chimera of rage, and righteousness, and _everything_ for Geralt. 

“You needn't fear him unless you have evil in your heart,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “I trust the Witcher with my life.” 

  
  


***** 

The road is still damp with recent rain when they leave the village at first-light. Jaskier still feels heavy with sleep, and blinks tiredly against the pink-grey dawn while Geralt packs Roach’s saddle-bags and swings himself onto her saddle. 

“We need to find you a horse,” Geralt murmurs some time later, when the chill of early morning is starting to give way. “This is too slow.”

Jaskier is finally starting to feel awake, but that doesn’t stop him from yawning and lagging behind Geralt and Roach for just a second. “Shockingly, I agree.” The mud sticks to his boots when he jogs to catch up. “My tender feet are starting to resent all the -- you, know -- _trudging_.” 

“Hmm.” 

“You could always let me join you on Roach?” he suggests with a small skip in the direction of Geralt. “I’m sure that --” 

“Not happening.” 

“You know, I’m starting to think that Roach cares more about me than you do!” he’s joking, and resents the sad little flutter his heart does at the not-unfounded supposition that his joke may, in fact, be grounded in truth. “Far more regard for my feelings, and my poor feet.” 

“She’s a horse.” 

“Nonetheless!” Jaskier responds. He thinks for a moment, and then swings his body around so he’s walking backwards. He points an accusatory finger at Geralt. “Actually. Actually, Witcher, I’ve decided you don’t get to get away with the whole --” he tenses his shoulders and blows out his cheeks, in a frankly terrible physical impersonation of Geralt. “ _Argh, I’m an unfeeling Witcher_ act. And it is an act, no doubt! Do I believe that Roach has a better emotional range than you? Perhaps. But! I don’t believe for _one second_ that Witchers feel nothing, so keep in mind that I see right through your --” he gestures vaguely at Geralt, wearing his black leather armour and a surly expression. “Whole _thing_.” 

“And I don’t believe that people enjoy your singing enough to pay three-hundred ducats. And yet it appears to be true.” 

“I think that’s the root of your image problem, really,” Jaskier continues, at this point all but immune to Geralt’s jabs at his musical talent. “It doesn’t help the reputation of Witchers in general when you’re so insistent on pretending that you’re, what? Above emotions? Makes you seem a bit,” Jaskier wriggles his fingers in Geralt’s direction. “Scary and unapproachable.” 

“Clearly it doesn’t work well enough, because you still approached me.” 

Jaskier hums and thinks back to his first meeting with Geralt. “Yes, but that’s what drew me in, Geralt!” He slips into the tone he uses for story-telling “The mystery, the _mystique_! The tall, dark and handsome stranger, brooding with an intensity previously unseen on this Continent! Only the most persistent and daring of folk would attempt to understand the inner-workings of such a man! And who better than a bard to --”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier fills their day of walking with chatter, and stories, and songs. As always, he gets perhaps one word out of Geralt for every hundred of his own. Morning inches to midday, and midday to early afternoon. It’s almost offensively pleasant, like the universe is begging forgiveness for two days of constant rain. The sun is warm against his neck, and the steady clop of Roach’s hooves and Geralt’s breaths fill the silence when Jaskier can’t think of anything to say. 

By mid-afternoon, he’s starting to tire, and says as much, asking Geralt whether his plan is simply to keep walking until Jaskier drops dead and the curse dies with him. 

“I would likely die with you, such is the nature of these curses,” Geralt responds, which doesn’t answer Jaskier’s question but is an unfriendly piece of information he files away for later. 

Something clicks in Jaskier’s brain. “Does that --? Did the mage mean to link us and then kill you? And also kill me? Two birds with one nasty magical stone?” 

Geralt glances at him. “Was that not obvious?” 

Jaskier refuses to feel embarrassed, and damns the blush creeping onto his cheeks. He simply doesn’t have a lifetime of experience with _curses_ and _monsters_ and _unfriendly mages_ under his belt, and refuses to let Geralt make him feel foolish for that fact. “Yes! I knew that. Insofar as -- well, no I _didn’t._ I don’t spend all of my time analysing the various and intricate ways people have tried to kill me,” Jaskier defends. 

“You should.” 

“Well it seems I have you for that.” 

“Hmm.” 

*****

Jaskier has been playing his lute while walking, and is almost happy with several new verses of song, when Geralt abruptly pulls Roach to a stop.

“Jaskier, shut up,” he demands. 

“I’m impressed you lasted a whole day before --” _giving into your annoyance at my lute_ , Jaskier was going to say, but is sharply cut off. 

“Jaskier, seriously,” and there’s something in the tone of Geralt’s voice and the sudden stiff set of his back that makes Jaskier do as he’s told.

“What is it?” he whispers, and Geralt holds up a finger to silence him, his head cocked like he’s listening for something.

All Jaskier can hear is the soft huff of Roach’s breath, and his own heart in his ears. The wind rustles through the leaves and sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. He doesn’t need to be a Witcher to feel that something is wrong, and swings his lute over his shoulder, glancing nervously towards the thick forest on either side of them. 

The sun passes behind a cloud. The world feels too still. 

And then all at once bodies break through the trees around them, some on horse-back and some on foot. “Fuck,” Geralt says at the same moment he draws his sword. 

There’s ten of them, Jaskier counts. He guesses bandits, based on their garb, and guesses that this is a robbery, based on the sword pointing at his chest. He swallows and glances towards Geralt, who has jumped from Roach and stands ready, his sword pointed in the direction of one of the bandits. 

“Give us your coin, your armour, and your horse,” a female voice says from over the other side of Roach. Jaskier doesn’t have eyes on her, but Geralt tightens his grip on his sword. 

“I’m going to give you one chance to walk away from this,” Geralt says. “I don’t want to kill you.” 

“You may be large, but you’re outnumbered,” another one of the bandits says, and despite there being absolutely nothing funny about the situation Jaskier _laughs_ . He can’t hold it in, and Geralt’s hiss of _Jaskier_ does nothing to help. 

Fear makes him reckless, he supposes, which is why he asks: “You don’t know who he is, do you?” 

“I don’t much care,” the woman says. “You have until the count of five to lower your sword. Five --” 

“Please, don’t make me do this,” Geralt says.

“Four.” 

Jaskier swallows, and suddenly really wishes he had a weapon.

“Three.” 

Geralt huffs, and out of the corner of his eye Jaskier sees his shoulders tense. 

“Two.” 

“Don’t --” Geralt starts at the same time the woman says _one_ and then the world explodes into chaos. 

There’s a sword swinging at Jaskier’s head, and he ducks, and someone is screaming, and it takes a moment for him to realise that it’s him. Geralt cuts down two of the bandits in quick succession. One of the riders shoots an arrow, and it lodges itself in the shoulder-plate of Geralt’s armour, but he barely seems to take notice of it. 

“Bollocks!” Jaskier shouts as an arrow flies towards him, barely missing his head.

Geralt is locked in simultaneous combat with four swordsmen. Jaskier would find it impressive if his attention didn’t remain elsewhere. Namely, on the stocky fellow with the broadsword currently rounding on him. 

“Geralt!” he screams, and Geralt ducks, parries, knocks down Jaskier’s assailant with the hilt of his sword to the head. 

The horseback archer coaxed his horse back by a few metres, and is trying to get an aim on Geralt without hitting the other bandits. Jaskier looks between the rider, and Geralt, and back to the rider, and then his eyes fix on a large tree branch fallen to the side of the road. 

Jaskier doesn’t think himself particularly brave, and he can feel his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. 

And yet, something compels him to grab the branch and grip it tight like a club. Everyone seems to have forgotten about Jaskier, far more focussed on the much more dangerous threat in the form of Geralt and his swords. There are, he supposes, some benefits to bringing only a lute to a sword-fight, in that he’s able to quietly fade into the background. 

It’s for this reason that Jaskier is able to sidle up to the rider, in a way that would be almost casual if not for the shake in his knees. “Come here often?” Jaskier asks, and as the archer turns on him, Jaskier clubs him in the chest with the branch. 

“Oh!” he exclaims as the archer falls to the ground. 

“Jaskier, get on Roach!” Geralt shouts, and Jaskier doesn’t question before dropping the branch and scrambling to climb onto the horse. 

He unhooks the strap of his lute, and reattaches it to the saddle bag. It’s hardly the most secure, but he’s glad he did it when a second later Geralt pulls himself up behind Jaskier. He reaches his arms around Jaskier’s sides to grab Roach’s reins, and spurs them into motion. Jaskier glances back, and notices that while no-one seems to be following them, there’s clear signs of movement amongst the bandits. 

“You left them alive?” Jaskier asks. 

“They were assholes, not monsters,” Geralt huffs, his breath hot and fast on Jaskier’s neck.

Geralt is battle-warm and silent behind him, and he smells of sweat, and blood, and adrenaline. He’s pressed hard against Jaskier’s back, and he can feel the solid weight of Geralt’s arms. His thighs are tight around Jasker’s hips. If he shifts he can feel Geralt’s hair brush his neck. The prickle of warmth in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach is entirely inappropriate, as is his instinct to lean in even closer.

Roach jumps over a fallen tree, and if not for Geralt’s arms bracing either side of him, Jaskier knows he would have fallen. His shriek is met with a grunt of _hold on, Jaskier_. He settles for gently knotting his hands in Roach’s mane. 

His blood thrums with adrenaline from the fight. “You’re right about me needing a horse,” Jaskier says, and his voice doesn’t sound like his own. 

Eventually, Geralt pulls them to a stop. His arms unlatch from around Jaskier and he jumps down from Roach.

“Off,” he commands, and Jaskier jumps down after him.

It’s only now that Jaskier realises something is wrong. Geralt’s lips are pursed and the set of his jaw is harder than usual. He’s _angry_ , Jaskier realises, but before he can prod further, Geralt is storming off into the forest with Roach’s reins in hand. 

“Geralt, wait --” Jaskier says, but Geralt simply grunts and starts walking faster.

Jaskier’s legs feel cramped from riding, and still slightly unstable from residual fear. In his scramble to catch up to Geralt his foot catches on a root and he trips, tumbling into the damp leaves of the forest floor. 

He feels a cold wave of discomfort rush over him, but Geralt doesn’t slow down, or make any move to stop and wait for Jaskier to catch up. Jaskier has barely clambered to his feet when it hits. His whole body feels like it’s on fire, on and he screams. 

“Geralt!” he shouts, barely able to grit out the words through the lighting-sharp pain that feels like it’s ripping his skin apart. They’d been so careful, and this hadn’t happened since that very first day. He’d almost forgotten the severity of the spasms. He’s worried he’s about to pass out from the pain, but manages to stumble forward a few steps, and then it’s over. The agony subsides to a dull buzz, and then another few steps, and if not the sheen of sweat on Jaskier’s forehead and the weak shake of his fingers, it would be like it never happened.

“Geralt,” he croaks, and coughs to clear his throat. “Geralt, what the fuck?” 

Geralt growls, and doesn’t turn to look at Jaskier. He takes a step forwards, further into the forest, and Jaskier follows with two steps of his own. 

“Geralt,” he says again, more force in his voice this time. “Talk to me. You can’t just --” 

“What can’t I do, Jaskier?” he asks, and then he’s turning around and blustering towards him.

Before Jaskier has time to process what’s happening, Geralt’s hand is tight in the fabric of his shirt, and he’s being pushed up against the trunk of a tree. Geralt’s fist slams into the bark above Jaskier’s head, and his golden eyes fix on Jaskier’s, sharp and furious. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Geralt shouts, pushing Jaskier harder against the tree. 

Jaskier swallows and frowns back at Geralt. “What was I thinking -- Wha -- When?” he tries to push himself up, but Geralt growls and tightens his grip, pinning Jaskier in place. “You’re the one who kept walking, I --”

“Not that,” Geralt grits. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, and part of Jaskier wonders what Geralt would do if he lashed out right now, and tried to break free. 

Jaskier isn’t afraid of Geralt, but he also has the instincts of a prey animal. Instincts which are telling him to _fight_ or _run_ , because those are the golden eyes of wolves and beasts. Of things that hunt and devour weak creatures like Jaskier. Instincts which are at war with the part of Jaskier that knows Geralt won’t hurt him, and the part that can’t help but let his gaze flick to Geralt’s lips when he lets out another animalistic growl. 

“Then what,” Jaskier whispers, and meets Geralt’s eyes. “Use your words, Witcher.” 

Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s shirt loosens, and the arm that was caging him drops back to Geralt’s side. His lips curl in disdain, but it’s with marginally less rage that Geralt shoves Jaskier again and says, “You could have died.”

Jaskier blinks because that isn’t what he was expecting. “When, exactly --” 

Geralt crowds in closer, until his chest is almost flush against Jaskier’s. And _oh gods_ , this should not be arousing in the slightest, because Geralt is very furious, and Jaskier has apparently unknowingly almost gotten himself killed, and they’re having a very serious conversation, but -- But Geralt’s breath is hot against Jaskier’s face, and it would be so easy for Jaskier to tilt his hips forward.

“You,” Geralt says, his voice low. “Went up against an armed and trained man with a _twig_.” 

Geralt’s eyes lock onto Jaskier’s, and a second passes, and Jaskier feels coiled too tight, and about to snap. 

“It was really more of a branch” Jaskier points out quietly, and Geralt grunts. 

Geralt closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, like he’s trying to rein in his temper. Jaskier wonders what would happen if he were to punch Geralt in the face, or to thread his hand through Geralt’s hair and push their bodies together. Both would likely be equally as deadly, even if only for Jaskier’s dignity. 

Jaskier also wonders whether Geralt’s anger is a result of concern for Jaskier, or concern for himself. If Jaskier dies, so does Geralt. 

“Were you worried about yourself? Or about me?” he asks, the words tumbling from his tongue before he can stop them. Jaskier is not a brave man, but he’s starting to think that he might be a certifiable fool. 

Geralt opens his eyes and meets Jaskier’s again. “Hmm,” he says, and something about it is answer enough.

Before Jaskier can say anything else stupid, Geralt drops his hand and takes a step back. 

“What, no _be more careful, Jaskier_ ?” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, and it takes a moment to gather himself and follow after Geralt. He tries not to let his voice waver, and wonders if Geralt can smell his adrenaline. “I really thought that this is where that conversation was going, no? If you can really call all your grunting and shoving a _conversation_ , which, well, because it’s you, I _will_ , because I know when to count my blessings, for you a whole sentence is essentially a soliloquy -- “ 

“Don’t push your luck, bard,” Geralt says, and a small grin itches at Jaskier’s lips. 

“Oh, but I have luck to spare, really. Lucky that I’ve had the fortune of befriending a Witcher who will not only save me from nasty bandits, but push me up against trees to show he cares! Very lucky indeed -- I’d be mad at you about the whole _storming off_ and _putting us both in excruciating pain_ thing, by the way, if I didn’t know that was your tragic way of trying to avoid talking. But still, don’t do it again. Wasn’t very nice. The curse stuff, that is, not the tree.” 

He can feel himself rambling. Jaskier’s mouth runs ten times faster than his brain at the best of times. And when his brain is foggy with the aftermath of both a failed robbery and a Witcher pressed against him? Well. He simply can’t be held responsible. 

Geralt grunts in response, and Jaskier really must be a fool of astronomical proportions, because it almost sounds to him like there’s the ghost of a laugh in there. 

“Rest assured, it won’t happen again,” Geralt says, and Jaskier isn’t sure which part he’s referring to. 

“Oh, right then. Good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What sits before you here is half of what I originally intended to be in this chapter, but then I got carried away with dialogue and banter, and here we are, 4k words later. 
> 
> This being said, I'm looking for some feedback. This fic is un-beta'ed so I've got nowhere else to turn other than the comments (rip). Have I gone too overboard on the miscellaneous and irrelevant-to-the-plot conversations between Geralt and Jaskier? Does Jaskier ramble too much? Is anyone actually in character? Is the pacing too slow? I'm in desperate want of feedback and constructive criticism.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite a bit longer (almost double the length) of the previous two. I thought about splitting it in half, but it felt too thematically and narratively unified to be two separate chapters, so I guess just consider these 6k words to be my little treat. That being said, I do actually kinda hate the first 85% of this chapter, but it sure do be that way sometimes
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who left comments on the previous few chapters, I'm slowly getting around to replying to everyone! All your feedback genuinely means the world.

(iii)

They don’t speak for what feels like an eternity, but which Jaskier knows is far closer to half an hour. He bites his tongue every time some witty, unwitty, or otherwise silence-breaking remark slips its way forward. It’s not that he cares whether Geralt is angry at him (which  _ oh gods,  _ is a lie, of course he cares) but he wants to give the Witcher room to breathe, as much as is possible with the curse hanging over their heads. The only way Jaskier can think to do so is by granting Geralt the silence he begs for constantly. 

Jaskier follows behind Geralt while he leads them through the forest. He doesn’t ask where they’re going, and doubts he’d get an answer beyond  _ hmm _ if he were to inquire further. 

The silence is deafening. Jaskier doesn’t understand how anyone, Geralt included, can find comfort in the ominous nothingness that’s broken only by the crunch of their boots against leaves. He focuses on the rhythmic sound of their steps, and his fingers itch to grab his lute and bring into fruition the tune that’s slowly forming in his head. But he doesn’t, and ardently hopes that Geralt appreciates his efforts.

It’s not until Geralt has stopped them at the edge of a river to allow Roach a drink that Jaskier absolutely can’t handle it anymore. They’ve been standing, Geralt’s back to Jaskier, for  _ minutes _ , and no-one has said anything. It’s not a comfortable silence, and he’s going to explode.

“So,” Jaskier says, wincing at the croak in his voice. “What’s the plan?” 

“Hmm,” Geralt responds, and Jaskier honestly doesn’t know what he expected. 

“Fantastic. Excellent plan. Shan’t inquire further.” 

Geralt finally turns to glare bitingly at Jaskier. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

Jaskier swallows, and thinks of the bandits that Geralt let live. He wonders whether they want revenge on the man that slaughtered their associates, and whether it may have been best if Geralt left no survivors. He feels guilty and bloodthirsty the moments he thinks it. 

“It’s safe,” Geralt continues, like he’s read Jaskier’s mind. That, or he can smell Jaskier’s fear, which hardly seems better. 

“I’m not worried,” Jaskier lies, and Geralt grunts in response. 

Jaskier wanders closer to Geralt, and watches as he runs his fingers through Roach’s mane while she drinks from the river. He looks tired, and his hair is streaked with dirt and blood that Jaskier guesses isn’t his own. There’s a smear of mud high on his forehead, and there’s an itch under Jaskier’s skin that tells him to reach out and wipe it off with the cuff of his sleeve. 

Instead, he turns and starts pacing back and forth, going as far as he can before feeling the curse warning him to stop. 

Jaskier doesn’t deal well with silence, or with stillness in general. It’s a trait that’s served him well in his bardic career, but which leaves him at a palpable impasse in the fallout of an argument with a characteristically silent and still Witcher. And  _ gods _ , was it even an argument? Jaskier isn’t sure what to call the tension that hangs in the air. To put it frankly, Jaskier feels  _ awkward _ , and he isn’t sure what to do with that, least of all in a way that won’t infuriate Geralt further. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs after anywhere between thirty second and a million years of Jaskier’s agitated pacing. “Stop.” 

“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” Jaskier says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. 

Geralt growls and unsheathes one of his swords, and for one confusing, horrifying second, Jaskier thinks he’s about to attack him. Which makes absolutely no sense, and yet somehow would still be more plausible than Geralt standing in front of Jaskier offering him his sword, hilt first, which is what happens instead.

“What’s that?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded.

“It’s a sword, Jaskier. Like a tree branch, only sharper.” 

“Oh ha ha, Geralt, very funny. Yes, I know what a sword is, I --” 

“Take it,” Geralt grunts, simultaneously using his left hand to unsheath his second sword. 

Jaskier blinks, looking between one sword, and Geralt, and the other sword, and Roach, just to make sure they haven’t been transported to some sinister, otherworldly destination. “Um, not to look a gift horse in the mouth -- or, well, I suppose, gift Witcher? Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the same way does it? -- but, uh, that is to say --” he hovers his right hand over the hilt. “Why?” 

Geralt grunts, and pushes the sword towards Jaskier’s hand, leaving him little choice but to grab it or let it crash to the ground. For a split second, his fingers wrap around Geralt’s before he withdraws his hand completely. Jaskier’s heart does a tiny leap that he deems entirely imprudent. 

“You’re not a fighter,” Geralt says, giving his own sword a perfunctory spin. “But you should be able to defend yourself. You will likely never be a skilled swordsman--” 

“Ey, thanks for that.” 

“But,” Geralt continues, ignoring Jaskier’s interruption completely. “You should be able to handle a blade in a fight, even if only to parry a swing until I can find my way to you.” 

A grin creeps onto Jaskier’s face at the last part of that sentence. He’s sure there’s a song lyric in there somewhere, if he lets himself look.

Geralt looks as imposing as ever standing before him with his sword drawn, and his golden eyes fixed unblinkingly on Jaskier. He understands, on an objective level, how Geralt’s opponents must feel when placed in this same position; there’s no denying that Geralt cuts an imposing silhouette. But, on a completely subjective and personal level, Jaskier thinks he looks wildly attractive, and can’t bring himself to be intimidated by the same man that just declared his ongoing intention to rescue Jaskier when he finds himself in the position of the oft-distressed damsel. 

“You’re going to teach me sword-fighting?” Jaskier asks incredulously, unable to keep the broad grin off his face. 

Geralt grunts. 

The sword is heavy in Jaskier’s hand, and he adjusts his grip, letting the weapon hang by his side. While it’s been years since he handled a sword, he would bet his lute that he still remembers the correct way to hold it. He’s always had faith in his muscle memory. 

“You’re holding it wrong,” Geralt says, and Jaskier glares at him. 

“Well, this is how I was _ told _ to hold it.”

While Jaskier considers himself thoroughly disowned, the fact remains that he was raised as the son of a Viscount. No amount of protesting will get a minor noble through his youth without at least some combat training. And Jaskier would know, because he protested  _ continuously  _ at his father’s insistence he continue the lessons. 

There’s a quick glint in Geralt’s eye, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of amusement that Jaskier wants to bottle and save for later. 

“Lift your weapon,” Geralt says. “Using that grip. Try to swing at me.” 

The moment he starts, Jaskier knows something is wrong. The sword is far too heavy, and his arm wavers before he can bring it to chest height to point at Geralt. He won’t admit that his elbow feels like jelly, and his wrist feels like it’s about to give way, and that perhaps Geralt is correct, but well… 

“So maybe you’re right,” Jaskier concedes, letting the sword flop back to his side. “But I’m simply following the instructions of one of the greatest swordsmen known to me in my youth -- nay, in my  _ life  _ \-- who instructed me for  _ many years _ on the art, and those things can’t just be dismissed, I --” 

“Fuck your swordsman. I’m telling you to hold it differently,” Geralt grunts. 

Geralt grabs the hilt of his own sword with both hands and demonstrates to Jaskier. “For someone of your strength, you’ll do best to stick with a two-handed grip.” 

“Yes, I s’pose we can’t all have arms built like oak trees, can we,” he mutters under his breath, replicating Geralt’s grip. It immediately feels more sturdy. 

Geralt huffs. 

“Bring your right foot back, and straighten your spine. Your stance is that of the overfed and under-trained nobility.” Jaskier brings his foot in and straightens his back, trying to emulate Geralt’s form. 

Geralt smiles, so small it’s almost invisible, and Jaskier thinks that if mocking his upbringing and admittedly mediocre fencing tutelage is what it takes to make Geralt smile, he’ll be the first to offer jokes at his expense. 

Geralt proceeds to demonstrate how to block an incoming blow. He’s a surprisingly good teacher, patiently advising Jaskier on how to adjust his form and movement. After several rounds of Geralt bringing his sword down at alternating angles for Jaskier to parry, he’s starting to sweat. 

Geralt, because he’s a terrible, tyrannical man who exists solely to bring misery to Jaskier, looks no more ruffled than when they began, save the blood and the dirt from earlier in the day. 

“Just --” Jaskier holds up a finger and lets his sword clatter to the ground, bending over to rest his hands on his knees and catch his breath. “One second.

Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier pulls his arms out of his already unbuttoned doublet and rolls up the sleeves of his under-shirt to elbow height, immediately feeling less constricted. He shakes out his arms, trying to loosen some of the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. He feels red-faced and out of breath, his body unused to this particular brand of exertion. 

“You know,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier. “I would have thought you’d have better stamina.” 

Jaskier hopes his flush is masked by the sweat. 

He picks up his sword. “I’m not finished yet, Witcher,” he says, and it feels dangerous, and oddly flirtatious, and like he’s toeing a line he didn’t know existed until very recently. “As you said yourself, I’m no swordsman. I do, however, live to entertain. And you can’t tell me you’re not having fun pummeling me with your --” he nods loosely at Geralt’s sword.

“Hmm.” 

“Oh come on, admit it. You’re having  _ fun _ .”

“I’m training you.” 

“Well, who’d have thought the two aren’t mutually exclusive? I’ve been saying for ages that--” Jaskier’s sentence is cut off by a screech as Geralt swings at him, slowly and obviously enough that Jaskier is able to easily lift his blade to parry, but with enough force that it sends him rocking back a step. 

Geralt swings again, and Jaskier tries this time to stay stationary and avoid being pushed back by the blow.

“Don’t be afraid to use the space around you,” Geralt says. “There is no shame in retreating.” 

Jaskier finds it easier to meet Geralt’s blows when he lets himself fall onto his backfoot with every swing, slowly inching backwards towards the river.

Eventually, he feels the back of his heel hit the water. Geralt’s blade is pressed against Jaskier’s from where he’d brought it in at a sharp angle over his head. Jaskier is breathing fast, and it has everything to do with the practice and nothing to do with how close Geralt is standing to him right now, and how he’s making no move to lower his sword or retreat. 

His skin is sweat-soaked, and he can feel the white linen of his undershirt sticking uncomfortably to his chest. “Are you sufficiently satisfied that I can defend myself against bandits now, or are you going to shove me up against a tree again?” Jaskier asks, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. 

He wants to punch himself for breaking the silence, because Geralt immediately drops his sword and takes a step backward, not meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “We’ll continue another day.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier lets his sword fall. “I’m happy to keep going now. Could keep going for ages longer, I’m barely even tired, I have the uh --” he isn’t even sure why he’s arguing it. He  _ is  _ tired, deep down to his sinew. “The energy of, uh -- of a --” he wracks his brain for an apt metaphor. “A small dog,” he settles on, and immediately winces. “A little…uh, energetic dog.” 

Geralt fixes him with a deadpan expression. “Bitch or not, we’re done for tonight.”

Jaskier balks. “Oi, never said I was a bitch just a -- a little dog -- and. Oh! Stop that look. Take the sword!” he places the weapon in Geralt’s outstretched palm. 

“Thank you.”

Jaskier huffs and shakes out his red-raw hands and sore wrists. The afternoon sun is getting low in the sky, but it’s still warm against Jaskier’s neck. The slight breeze rolling in from the trees cools his sweat, and blows a strand of Geralt’s hair down onto his face, blocking his expression while he turns away.

“We should bathe before sundown,” Geralt says as he begins to unbuckle his swords and armour. Jaskier can smell the sharp scent of his own sweat, and the earthy tang of mud and grime stuck to his skin. 

“Yeah, I suppose we should,” Jaskier swallows down the lump in his throat. “Here, let me--” he steps towards Geralt, with the intention of helping him out of his armour.

Geralt swats away his hands. “You’re slow.” 

“Well I won’t ever get faster if you don’t let me help,” he protests, reaching up to untie the laces holding Geralt’s shoulder-pads in place. Each time he does this for Geralt, his fingers are slightly less clumsy, and he wonders whether one day he'll be able to rip off Geralt’s armour in seconds. It’s a dangerous thought. “Next time you’re all passed-out and bleeding, or poisoned, or cursed, or anything equally horrendous, and you say  _ oh, Jaskier, get me out of this armour  _ and  _ oh Jaskier, rub this nasty potion on my gaping wounds _ , then you’ll be grateful that you let me help now, because I’ll be so much more efficient.”

“Won’t happen.” 

“Oh, won’t it? Next time you’re gravely wounded remind me to say  _ I told you so _ . I’ll be too busy efficiently removing your armour and treating your wounds to remember to be petty -- or, not  _ petty _ \--” 

Geralt grunts, and he doesn’t need words to communicate that he does indeed consider it petty. 

“But anyway, you’ll be glad that -- Sweet Melitele, Geralt, what the fuck?” he’s just finished removing Geralt’s second shoulder-pad, and his fingers are covered in blood. There’s a small tear in the shoulder of Geralt’s shirt, and the fabric around it is sticky and dark. 

“Hmm,” Geralt shrugs Jaskier’s hands off. 

“Oh, no, no, no, this is  _ exactly  _ what I’m talking about -- I told you so! Didn’t think I’d be getting to use that one  _ quite  _ so quickly -- you can’t just  _ hmm  _ away a gaping hole in your shoulder. What is that, a stab --” 

“Arrow.” 

“Oh wonderful. So you were  _ training me  _ with an arrow wound in your shoulder? Sensible and brilliant as ever, Geralt.” 

Geralt glares at Jaskier. “It’s barely a flesh wound.” 

“It’s barely --” Jaskier balks, and points accusingly at Geralt. “You can’t keep saying that every time you get --” he makes a noise and gestures vaguely at the wound on Geralt’s shoulder. “You might be surprised to learn that flesh is precisely where all wounds tend to be, and also where all wounds  _ should not be _ ! A flesh wound! Geralt!” 

Geralt grunts in response. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Jaskier accuses, and brings his hands back to hover over Geralt’s shoulder. “Should I -- does it need to be dressed?”

Geralt scoffs. “Hardly. It’s already begun to heal. You’re overreacting, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier sighs, and lets his hands fall to unlace the rest of Geralt’s armour. When it’s loose, Jaskier bundles it into his hands and takes a step back, and at the same time Geralt pulls his shirt off and begins trudging towards the river. 

“Hey, wait!” Jaskier fumbles and almost drops Geralt’s armour, and instead settles for placing it gently on the grass near Roach. “Let me see that shoulder.” 

Geralt’s shoulder and upper back are smudged red. It doesn’t look like the arrow-wound is still bleeding, but it’s still too much blood for Jaskier to be comfortable ignoring the situation altogether, which seems to be the approach Geralt is taking. 

“Let me bathe, first,” Geralt says, and Jaskier is stopped in his tracks by Geralt kicking off his boots and dropping his pants. He stretches and glances back at Jaskier, and  _ oh the bastard _ , he definitely knows what he’s doing. No being with any inch of attraction towards men would be immune to the ripple of muscle in his arms, and it successfully distracts Jaskier from the bloody and arrow-shaped elephant in the room long enough for Geralt to wade into the shallows of the river. 

“We’re still having this conversation,” Jaskier shouts, so he can be heard over the splash of Geralt’s steps. Geralt has stopped walking, now thigh deep in the water, and Jaskier knows that it’s because one more step forward will start to itch the boundaries of the curse. “Don’t think your remarkable arse is going to distract me! I’m on a mission, Geralt, and that mission is to ensure your horrible little arrow wound isn’t infected!” 

“Get in the water, Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier mutters under his breath about silly Witchers, and their silly stubbornness, and silly arrow wounds, and tries very hard not to focus on the fact that he is undressing, and that Geralt is naked, and that he very much wants nothing more than to go press his body against Geralt’s. Being magically bound together is complicated enough without Jaskier’s pesky physical attraction to the man in question. Jaskier will be the first to admit that, in many cases, he tends to think with his heart and his dick, his brain consigned to watching in horror as Jaskier’s impulsivity gets him into trouble. However, this is one situation where he delegates his dick to third-in-command, and his heart to a close second, trying very hard to let his brain call the shots. 

He wades into the river, as far away from Geralt as he can while remaining comfortably within the curse boundaries, until he’s waist deep, and only then turns to look at Geralt. Geralt is crouched down in the water, his shoulder submerged, scrubbing his fingers through his hair.

“Won’t the blood attract sharks?” Jaskier asks, and it’s a joke, but Geralt looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Or, at least, big, bitey freshwater fish? You know what I mean.” 

“If it attracts fish, we’ll eat them,” Geralt says, scrubbing at the dirt on his face and neck. 

“Lovely. If something starts nibbling my toes I’ll make sure to let you know.” 

Jaskier pushes himself back into the water, briefly bobbing under the surface before popping back up, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes. He’s immensely glad that today’s weather has remained pleasant, because he can’t help but think how much more miserable everything would have been had the recent rain persited. 

“Can I see your shoulder now?” Jaskier asks, already wading towards Geralt. 

Geralt grunts, and swims deeper into the river, until he’s standing a few feet away from Jaskier. His white hair is plastered against his back and chest, turned slightly darker by the water. “Will you stop annoying me if I let you see?” 

“No, probably not. But I’ll stop annoying you about this particular thing, so that’s, well, one win for you I suppose.” 

Geralt sighs and turns his right shoulder towards Jaskier, sullenly bunching his hair and pulling it out of the way. “It’s already begun to heal.” 

Jaskier’s fingers hover over the wound, which, sure enough, has not only stopped bleeding, but has started to turn pink at the edges. It looks far less grievous when the blood is cleaned away, but Jaskier will still deny that he overreacted at all. “Let me put on some disinfectant salve,” he says, and Geralt winces slightly as Jaskier’s index finger runs over the purpling bruise surrounding the wound. 

“It’s not infected.”

“How do you know?” Jaskier takes a step backwards, and crosses his arms over his chest, still very much trying to ignore his nudity, and the background hum of arousal that’s been present since Geralt undressed. 

Geralt grunts, which Jaskier takes to mean he doesn’t know for sure, and that it would be judicious for them to take precautions against infection, despite Geralt’s apparent confidence. 

“Lucky for you I remember which one the disinfectant is,” Jaskier says, falling into a backstroke and swimming away from Geralt. He tries to do a flip underwater, but water shoots up his nose and he surfaces spluttering. He thinks he hears Geralt chuckle.

He tucks his legs up and lets himself sink to shoulder-depth, letting the water hold him afloat. He watches for a second while Geralt scrubs at the spot of blood on his cheek that seems to be perversely persistent. 

He feels guilty suddenly, and it’s even sure for what. For Geralt training him while still injured? For his noisy lute-playing undoubtedly playing a role in attracting the bandits? For being there in the forest with the warlock in the first place, and subsequently intruding on Geralt’s life with his pesky inability to be more than fifteen feet away? He’s isn’t sure, but apparently his heart has orchestrated a coup against his brain, because he says, “I’m sorry about today, Geralt.” 

“It’s not your fault we encountered bandits,” he keeps scrubbing at his skin, and Jaskier’s eyes trace the map of scars on his back.

“I, know, but --” 

Now, Geralt stops and turns to Jaskier. He’s silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “I was rash in my anger. It’s I that should apologise. Breaking the curse boundary was childish and I am truly sorry, Jaskier.” 

The setting sun reflecting on the water is the same golden as Geralt’s eyes. It burns into the heart of Jaskier. 

He’s torn between making a joke and letting his genuine appreciation for Geralt’s apology spill out. The former feels cheap, and the latter feels too heavy, and Jaskier is worried that once he starts talking he won’t be able to stop. 

“Thank you,” he settles on, and hates the way it sounds. He also hates that he can’t stop a nervous spew of nonsense out after it, including, “Multiple sentences  _ and _ an apology? Who are you and what have you done with Geralt of Rivia? Which isn’t to say that I don’t like your whole, uh,  _ silent thing _ , it’s just that, well, I’d normally expect a  _ shut up, Jaskier!  _ or a  _ hmm _ in place of, well, sentences and articulation, I suppose, and --” 

“You talk too much, bard,” Geralt interrupts, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, thankful for the out. 

“I’d say between the two of us we average out to, well, an average amount of talking.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, as if to prove Jaskier’s point. 

Jaskier sinks beneath the surface of the water again, and closes his eyes, and when he blinks his vision dances with the white and gold and red. 

***** 

The sun has sunk lower when they exit the river. Jaskier pulls on his breaches and chemise, pushing up the sleeves to let the cool evening air brush his forearms. The horizon is shades of pink and orange, and it seems to stretch on forever in the reflection of the river, and the warm haze cast over the world. 

Geralt sits shirtless on the grass by the edge of the water, his hair drying in soft waves against his back. Jaskier pulls the small bottle of disinfectant from Roach’s saddle bag and wanders over, allowing himself one indulgent moment to just watch, and look, and appreciate the sharp lines of Geralt’s face. 

“Are you going to let me treat that hole in your shoulder?” Jaskier asks, already moving to sit down before Geralt can answer. 

“Hmm.” 

“Don’t worry, you can keep brooding. I’ll be very unintrusive. Pretend I’m not even here.” 

He positions himself to Geralt’s right, his left leg stretching behind Geralt’s back and his right leg tucked in tight to his own chest. Geralt doesn’t move away, or really acknowledge Jaskier’s presence at all, which he takes as an all-in-all good sign. 

“Did saying several sentences in a row before take it out of you?” he jokes as he pulls Geralt’s hair away from his right shoulder so he can get at the wound more easily. “Quite understandable, really. You remind me sometimes of this wonderful instrument I encountered a few years back. This ingenious bell ringer put together this mechanism which -- well, I don’t understand it fully, yet another way it reminds me of you, Geralt -- but it had these cylinders and pins. You’d pull on the strings, much as one would with a normal bell, and nothing would happen for a great while, and then eventually, a pre-ordained melody would play, all on it’s own. The same every time.”

He gently rubs a layer of the poultice over Geralt’s shoulder, careful not to let his fingers press too hard. “Once it had played, it needed time to be wound up again. Difference being I suppose that you provide far more variety in your conversation, when you do choose to have it. I must admit the same melody did get old after a time. However, I think -- I  _ know _ , you’re much the same. But instead of a bell-string one can tug on to wind you back up you just, well... sit and brood for a while.” 

“I’m not a bell.”

Jaskier dips his fingers into the poultice and begins applying a second layer. “Yes, if you listened you’d know that like this contraption, you’re quite the opposite. If you were a bell I could ring you whenever I please.” 

Geralt grunts and shifts slightly, causing Jaskier to press harder than he intended into the tender skin around the arrow wound. Geralt grunts. 

“Stay still,” Jaskier scolds. 

“Hypocritical from you, bard,” Geralt responds, eyes still fixed on the horizon. He smiles slightly, and Jaskier wonders what that smile would feel like against his lips. 

Jaskier knocks his left knee against Geralt’s back. “It’s the law of averages, Geralt, as with the talking. If I were any less, well --” he screws up his nose. “Overzealous --” 

Geralt huffs.    
  


“Shush. I trust that you have many more insulting descriptive words, but, yes, it’s the law of averages, insofar as we’d hardly make viable travelling companions if I were equally, well,  _ sullen _ .” 

“It’d give me room to think.” 

“Yes, but I also worry that one of these days you’ll forget how to speak completely. Think all you please, but it’s rather useless if you only  _ hmm  _ and grunt through life. If not for me, I dread to imagine how long you’d go without anything other than grunts and growls. The law of averages. My civilised refinement is a panacea to your --” he wiggles his fingers. “Witcheryness.” 

Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier, the set of his jaw suggesting annoyance, but the glint in his eyes betraying his amusement. “Roach is more civilised than you.” 

Jaskier balks, gently slapping the back of his hand against Geralt’s bicep. “I am a  _ Viscount _ !” 

“You’re the disowned son of a Viscount, who survives on the coin of drunkards and the rotting refuse of village merchants.” 

“It’s been months since I’ve eaten rotten food,” Jaskier defends, but it’s hardly a strong argument. But he can hardly be to blame. After all, it’s hard to string together entirely coherent thoughts when pressed close to Geralt, his fingers still hovering on the uninjured skin just above the arrow-wound 

“Hmm.” 

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Jaskier runs his fingers slowly down the arch of Geralt’s shoulder before pulling his hand away and screwing the lid back onto the poultice. “There, done. I’m now marginally more confident that it won’t become infected, and your arm will rot away, or fall off, which -- well, has there ever been a one-armed Witcher? It would certainly make for an interesting ballad. Regardless, your arm is remaining attached, and the poultice will help with the scarring.” 

His eyes catch again on the medley of scars that decorate Geralt’s torso. They look silver under the glow of the setting sun. 

Reluctantly, Jaskier starts to stand, wincing slightly at the pull in his shoulders when he braces his hands against the ground. He imagines the pain will only be worse tomorrow. His body isn’t used to sword-fighting, and he imagines the on-and-off spikes of adrenaline all day haven’t helped his muscles settle. 

“Sit,” Geralt says, and his eyes are back on the river, so it takes Jaskier perhaps a moment too long to process the word.

“I’m putting the poultice --”  _ back with Roach _ , he doesn’t say. 

Geralt grunts, and then his hands are tight around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him back down into a sitting position. Before he can really process the whole situation, Geralt has shifted until he’s sitting behind Jaskier, and his hands are on Jaskier’s shoulders, slowly massaging out the knots. 

Jaskier thinks he must have drowned in the river and entered some afterlife haze. That, or he was knocked on the head by the bandits and this is the culmination of an afternoon-long hallucination. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt responds with a grunt and a harder press of his thumb. 

“You helped me treat my wound,” Geralt says in way of a sensible answer. 

Jaskier swallows. “Thought you said it didn’t need treating?” 

Geralt growls. 

Birds chatter in the trees around them, and Jaskier thinks one day he must steal their melodies, and match them with words about the warmth of Geralt’s fingers. 

“You don’t have to --” Jaskier starts. 

“I can stop if you want,” Geraly says, but his hands don’t leave Jaskier’s back, and he blames his body for the traitorous way it leans into Geralt’s touch. 

By the time the sky has shifted to a soft shade of periwinkle, and the finger-nail moon is bright behind the wisps of cloud, the tension has melted from Jaskier’s muscles. He keeps interjecting with comments that are neither necessary nor discerning, but he needs a distraction from the overwhelming intimacy of what’s happening. If he stops talking, he’s worried he’ll either explode, or melt into a puddle under Geralt’s hands. 

What he most certainly cannot, and does not do, is think about possible scenarios in which he turns around, and climbs into Geralt’s lap, and kisses him, and lets Geralt fuck him, right here by the river. He doesn’t think about how even through the layer of his chemise he can feel the heat of Geralt’s hands, and doesn’t think about how those hands would feel wrapped around his thighs. 

He wonders whether Geralt knows how maddening he is. 

“I need to hunt rabbits,” Geralt eventually says, rather abruptly and unexpectedly, and between one blink and the next his hands are gone from Jaskier’s shoulders and he’s standing, pulling his shirt over his head and stalking towards the edge of the forest.

Jaskier has to scramble to catch up, and grabs his doublet, if only to hold in front of his crotch, in a way that he hopes is inconspicuous (but knows for a fact isn’t). 

That he manages to find Geralt skewering a rabbit with his sword  _ sexy _ , in albeit a wild and unhinged way, is testament to the fact that Jaskier is well and truly doomed. 

***** 

The rabbits are skinned, and seasoned, and cooked, and paired with bread and vegetables brought from the village. Jaskier’s fingers dance over the strings of his lute, playing comfortably familiar tunes. The fire is stacked high with wood. The smoke makes Jaskier’s eyes water, but he welcomes the warmth as a blanket against the increasing chill of the night. 

When Geralt starts talking, it’s seemingly out of nowhere. His eyes are locked on the fire, and he sits so still that Jaskier would almost think him a statue.

“The mutations which made me a Witcher changed me, in more ways than even I will ever understand,” he says. “Many say that they removed our capacity to feel, but I experience pain as much as any man. It is dulled, especially in the midst of battle, but it’s present.” 

Geralt hasn’t moved an inch. Jaskier hesitates for a moment, torn between prompting Geralt further, and allowing him to speak on his own terms. His curiosity wins. “Only pain?” Jaskier asks, quietly, his fingers coming to fall silently on the body of his lute. 

“And lust,” Geralt adds, still unmoving.

Jaskier’s throat feels dry. “You make yourself sound like quite the brute. Running around getting stabbed and fucking women -- and men, on occasion, if your words are to be believed -- none of the more inconvenient emotions holding you back.” 

Geralt grunts. 

“Oh yes, exactly the eloquent and un-brutish counter argument I’d expect.” 

If Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile, Jaskier doesn’t mention it. 

When Geralt doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate any further, Jaskier decides he has little to lose in asking, “And what of other feelings? Fear, anger, joy, love? It’d be a cruel fate to rob a man of all sensation except pain. Lust is definitely less cruel, but, gods,” Jaskier shrugs. “I can’t imagine lust without, thrill, and fun, and love, and even fear, if the circumstances are right.” 

“Pain keeps me alive.” 

“Well, yes, I suppose on the level of  _ ah, no! I just held my hand over the fire, better not do that _ , I suppose it does.” He thinks for a moment, slowly surveying the way the firelight dances against Geralt’s static profile. “But if all there is is pain, and the absence of pain, and the occasional repreive of a nice fuck, well -- I certainly couldn’t do it. It’s living, but it’s no  _ life. _ ” 

There’s a song lyric in there somewhere, and he desperately wants to pull out his songbook and quill, but it hardly feels appropriate. 

“I have no memory of what it was to feel, before I was a Witcher.”

“But you do feel,” Jaskier says, and it isn’t a question. 

Geralt hums, and it’s as close to agreement as he thinks he’ll ever get. 

“You know,” Jaskier looks away from Geralt and towards the fire. “Even amongst humans, the way we feel -- the things people feel, and how much, and how strongly, and well, how they express it -- they’re hardly uniform. You may not be human in the strictest sense Geralt, but…” Jaskier shrugs. “Don’t mistake difference for inhumanity. By that metric, no man or woman on this earth is human.” 

When Geralt looks at him, there’s something easy in his gaze. The firelight dances off his skin and hair, and his fingers clench into a fist, just once, before falling to rest again on the arch of his knee.

Jaskier says nothing for a long while, and the pop of firewood, and the shrill shrieks of night birds, and Geralt’s soft breathing are a melody. For a moment, Jaskier understands the silence, and it feels sinful to break it. 

**Author's Note:**

> come harrass me on tumblr at [bastardreynolds.tumblr.com](http://bastardreynolds.tumblr.com) and leave comments because i thrive on external validation


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